Afternoons with Emily (46 page)

The autumn passed with study and work — along with the ebb and flow of my worries about Elena. I was not sure what I could
do to rectify that situation, so I forced myself to put it aside, which I did by burying myself deeper into work. The war
was many miles away yet always near, its horror never far from our minds. Since Atlanta, the crucial railroad center of the
South, had fallen at last — and the reduced Confederate armies could no longer be shuttled about from one campaign to another
by train — surely, surely the fighting must end soon.

The lawyers in Chicago sent me the final papers for the Miranda Arethusa Chase Foundation, indicating that the trust was fully
executed and that our funds were now available. At last I gave them to Mr. Harnett to read. After he had studied them, he
looked at me, his face open, his eyes bright.

“Miranda, right here in my hand, I am holding solid, tangible love. Davy’s for you, and the children’s love and gratitude
for all you are going to accomplish.”

His joy and wonder were heartwarming.

“Miranda, let me understand.” He was suddenly hesitant. “Do you intend that I work with you?”

“Yes, I do,” I assured him. “You showed me the way to learning, and I hope that now we may be partners.”

“Davy, you, and me.” He smiled. “We three will work together. We will be part of one another’s lives.”

“Both you and Davy said
exactly
that same thing to me.”

“It is true for both of us,” he said. He stood, excitement forcing him to his feet. “It is the means to our success,” he continued.
“We can support the best ideas, the best people, the best work. There’s no limit to our future!” Then he faced me squarely.
“One last thing.” His eyes crinkled at the corners with good humor. “Will you never learn to call me Alan?”

I colored a faint pink and said I would try.

Now that the foundation existed, our next undertaking, as I had told Father in the shock of the news, was to add color to
our bouncing alphabet. We climbed up to a huge loft full of fierce clanking presses to consult our Polish printer, Mr. Klawalski.

“This will be the very first book a small child sees,” Mr. Harnett — Alan — explained.

Mr. Klawalski turned to me. “You want I make happy book?”

“We certainly do!” I replied. “Happy as a child the day he learns to read. We want lively colors for these cheerful letters.”

Our printer studied the smug striped “C for Cat” in our alphabet. “I think you need color like child sees. This I do.”

The next evening a scrawny blond boy of twelve appeared at our door. He wore a huge ink-stained apron and carried the galley
proofs of our alphabet. Charmingly colored: a single irregular blob of red or blue or yellow lightened Ethan’s drawings, as
if a child were using the brush. The pure primary colors glowed; each page pulsed with energy.

“These are perfect!” I told the boy. “Who did them?”

The boy smiled and bowed. Like Mr. Klawalski, he used the fewest words possible. “You want happy. I do.”

Eventually we learned that he was Stefan Klawalski, his father’s apprentice; that he hoped to be a painter; that he took free
art lessons at the Cooper Union School in the Bowery.

“Stefan, you’re our official colorist,” I told him. “We’ll pay you by the piece. Now will you look at these children’s stories?
They need your happy colors too!”

I related all that was happening in New York to Aunt Helen, to Miss Adelaide, and, as promised, to Lolly and Mary Crowell,
and to Emily as well. Our kindergarten was off to a splendid start. Each little beginner in our classroom was moving toward
literacy unafraid, free, and joyful. They arrived smiling, asking, “What are we going to play today?” My earlier college courses
and Chris Butler’s guidance in ethnographic studies had given me the comparative knowledge I needed to go forward with this
work.

In November, Abraham Lincoln was reelected. General McClellan, the opposing candidate, was a dangerous contender. There was
a shocking amount of support for McClellan in New York City, but the army voted solidly for Lincoln. Davy’s old commander,
General Grant, was relentless, expending troops without mercy, grinding away at the thinning Confederate armies on every front.
The country — both countries, reunited — would need his wisdom in the confusion after the war.

At Thanksgiving, Emily sent a note and a poem: “Here are a few thoughts — a draft, if you will — to stuff your turkey.” I
read her letter aloud in the small foundation office that Alan and I had opened. I had finally managed to feel comfortable
addressing him by his first name. Hearing the children call him “Mr. Harnett” on a daily basis helped me to make this transition.

The poem was Emily at her incomparable best.

He ate and drank the precious Words —

His Spirit grew robust —

He knew no more that he was poor,

Nor that his frame was Dust —

He danced along the dingy Days

And this Bequest of Wings

Was but a Book — What Liberty

A loosened spirit brings —

I finished my recitation and saw Alan’s awestruck expression.

“Miranda, you never told me your friend is a genius.”

My brow crinkled, and I gazed down at the paper in my hands. “I’m not sure she is. All I know is that she’s willful and selfish
— and that some of her poems are as bad as this one is good.”

“Whoever said genius is consistent?” Alan replied. “Or easy to live with? Mark my words, Miranda — your willful, selfish friend
will be known and read for generations. You’d better start saving her stuff.”

Alan’s words shamed me. Perhaps I was too close to Emily. Her letters described her garden or her work. She never asked questions
about what I was doing. She had barely congratulated me or wished me success with my new enterprise. Perhaps I let her maddening
airs and moods obscure her poems and their true worth. I thought of the homily “Truth is the daughter of Time.” A hundred
years from now, our descendants, far removed from Emily Dickinson’s daily demanding self, would be able to decide whether
or not she was a genius.

As I saw the kindergarten children’s preparations for Christmas and began to read the Christmas stories, I was haunted by
thoughts of Elena. We were approaching a season of merriment, a time when happy memories are created for tomorrow and the
sweet melodies of Christmases past joyously ring. Yet I feared that Elena would have none of these and that her early childhood
would be frozen in deep midwinter. Ethan had written that Mrs. Newell was managing “as best she can,” and yet Elena was so
sensitive, so delicately balanced. Deep in the night when I awoke, I could not help but wonder how she was, what she was doing.
My leaving her must have been another blow, another death, just when she had begun to love and trust again.

So finally, when the Christmas holiday came, Alan and Fanny agreed that I should return to Amherst, and from there pay a visit
to Springfield.

The beauty of my village in December was an amazement: I had forgotten the brilliant snow, the Pelham Hills in their winter
mauve. Everything in New York was gray — the buildings, the streets, even the air. I always felt a dozen people had breathed
it before it reached me! The biting valley air was a lovely shock to city lungs; I felt a deep sense of homecoming.

Aunt Helen wanted to hear every detail of the Friends School, the foundation office, our newly created Leo Press — but agreed
that this could wait until I had gone to Springfield. And so the very next day, I took the cars to Elena.

When I reached the Howland house, I was appalled by the little girl’s changed demeanor. She did not know me at first — but
when I said her name her face began to brighten, and she cried out, “Manda, Manda!” Then she hugged my knees and held me fiercely.

I was relieved that there was no awkwardness between Ethan and me, and that any tension that had existed before had evaporated
with time. Josey was happy to see me but was far more interested in companions of his own age. Baby Ethan didn’t know me at
all. But Elena . . .

She clung to me like a burr for the entire day, using both frantic little hands. When I put her to bed, she cried and hung
on to me with true desperation. In the middle of the night, she climbed into my bed in a strange unnatural trance, not seeing
or hearing but reaching out to hold me again — while I lay awake, grieving and worrying.

I studied Ethan’s arrangements and decided he was managing as best he could. Mrs. Newell cooked and washed — but she was sixty
and not educated. She had neither the energy nor the resources for three young children. Jack Ross, Ethan’s amiable young
apprentice at the Springfield Armory, boarded in the house and acted as tutor to the boys. They played outdoors and enjoyed
balls and games. Nobody was mistreated, nobody was dirty or hungry, but Elena, in her rough boys’ shirts and knickers, her
curls tangled, her green eyes vacant — Elena’s spirit was being starved to death.

I planned to lead into this very delicately when I talked to Ethan the next day, but he was there already with his own deep
concern — and his news. He was to be married.

“Her name is Ann Mackay,” Ethan told me tentatively. “She is a widow from New Bedford, with two boys of her own and a husband
lost at Bull Run. Annie is a good woman, Miranda. We were children together before —” At this his voice broke. He turned away
and said no more. He didn’t need to. His awkwardness told me that love, true love, had had little role in guiding his choice.

Now was my time to speak, very carefully. “I have been thinking about Elena . . .”

I saw anguish on his face. “I have failed with Elena,” he confessed. “She barely speaks at all. She misses Kate more every
day, without knowing who or what she is lacking. In the spring, when Ann and I are wed, I believe, I hope, she’ll do better.”

How? I worried. With two brothers and two stepbrothers and perhaps half siblings to come.

Again I was very careful. “I spent last fall reading about children in other cultures, in other parts of the world. I was
very struck by an idea from the Polynesians, the South Sea islanders. They believe that every person has a mana, an essential
flame of identity that we would call ‘the soul.’ They say you must be true to your mana or you will simply fade away and disappear.
Elena,” I went on, “has the mana of a very gentle, dreamy little girl of three — and yet we expect her to behave as if she
were a rough, tough, independent five-year-old boy! No wonder she’s confused. No wonder she feels her true self slipping away.”

Ethan was quiet, examining my opinion. “I just don’t know what to do,” he said at last. “You are right. She has been like
a little ghost in daylight, disappearing right before my eyes.” He sighed. “What do you suggest?”

An idea came to me. “Let me talk to Aunt Helen, Ethan. Perhaps . . . perhaps Elena should come to Amherst for a while. Let
us try to repair her for a bit — and then we can talk about the future.”

Ethan nodded as he listened. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think we should send her to Amity Street, with all of you. If you
are willing, dear Miranda . . .” His voice trailed off, and I saw the pain in his eyes, deep and heavy with grief. I took
his hand.

“I will do my best, Ethan. For you, and for Kate, and for Elena.”

Wordlessly, his eyes brimming, he nodded. Then he leaned forward and kissed my forehead, and our plan was sealed.

The train did not frighten Elena as long as she held my hand. We reached Amherst at noon. She was calm and cheerful, meeting
Bridget and inspecting the house — but never loosened her grip on me. We brought nothing from Springfield, but by nightfall
Aunt Helen had borrowed a cot and some little girls’ clothes. Elena went to sleep in Kate’s room in her first nightgown ever.
For the next three nights she crossed the hall, still asleep, and crawled into my bed with me — and after that she stayed
all night in her cot.

Within a week, my aunt and I could not remember our house and our life without her. At Christmas, we decorated a little fir
tree for Elena with some of Davy’s delicate stars. We took her to the children’s carol singing on the green. To my delight,
as we rolled out shortbread together the next day for mimosa rosettes, she hummed the tunes. We gave her frilly dresses and
petticoats, and an enchanting red cape with a ruffled hood. Her presence made up for father’s absence at Christmas, which
he was enjoying at some ancient site. This was my first Christmas without him and without Kate as well.

Out of nowhere, it seemed, Elena had a name or an observation for everything, as though she were awakening from a long sleep,
as I had. We found her a brown velvet bear with a particularly sweet expression; Elena named him Maple Syrup. We taught her
to say, “Happy New Year!” We toasted being together and peace for the nation in 1865.

AMHERST

1865–1867

D
uring my early years in Amherst, when Kate and I lived as sisters, I learned a great deal watching as she immersed herself
in music study. Codas, I came to appreciate, were those independent, often elaborate musical passages introduced at the end
of the main part of a movement. Beethoven, more than any of the great composers, favored such dramatic excursions away from
the home key. When I thought about Kate, I thought of this and how I had intended only to restore and return her troubled
little daughter. I never imagined that as I did, she would transform my own life.

Every morning began when Elena scurried across the hall and into my bed. We discussed the day ahead, and our plans and our
duties. She dearly loved schedules and fixed events, which, I had learned from my readings in ethnology, added the structure
and rhythm necessary to a child’s day.

After this Elena and I dressed together in my room. I helped her as little as possible. I wanted her to be independent about
her own clothes, for I could remember the tyranny of buttons in the back! At home with us, she wore loose knit jerseys and
bright corduroy rompers. She called these her “clown suits.” When we went out, she was a proper young lady in a dress and
flannel petticoats — and the scarlet cape, her “Little Red Riding Hood.”